


preterite, present, infinitive

by dumbkili



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Bodhi is smart and capable of doing things! bye!, Character Study, M/M, and when i say character study i mean its primarily character study, but it's definitely still there!, less focus on the romance than i think people would expect, this was in my drafts for 10 months so yeah im just gonna post it now
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-23
Updated: 2017-11-23
Packaged: 2019-02-05 22:17:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12803550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dumbkili/pseuds/dumbkili
Summary: The point is this: Bodhi Rook (ex-cargo pilot, current rebel) is smart. He has to be- he’d have died years ago if he wasn’t. He is smart- actually, too smart for the Empire, which led to him having the presence of mind to cover that intelligence up. He has never wanted notoriety or recognition or (heavens forbid) a promotion. He wants to stay alive. And then Galen Erso- a good man, Bodhi knows, but a strange and inscrutable one- gives him that datastick and tells him to run. And he is smart enough to take the opportunity that is offered to him. Smart enough to do something right, even if it might get him killed.





	preterite, present, infinitive

**Author's Note:**

> 2:30 am on a wednesday night post your 10 month old drafts
> 
> i know what the tags say and i wanna reassure you all that this is still pretty gay

When Bodhi was recruited into the Empire, he was not told to be a soldier. This is important. He was trained as a cargo pilot-  _ just _ a cargo pilot is how he likes to say it, the emphasis on the diminutive. It’s not an easy position to get, though, is the thing. There is no  _ just _ about it. To be a pilot for the Empire- even a cargo pilot, someone to shuttle supplies and troops and rations around- requires months of training and a dozen inherent and natural skills that not everybody has. Sharp eyesight, a cool head under pressure, quick reflexes. An understanding of several different military coding techniques, a good memory for the ever shifting and miles long lists of inspection regulations, and the ability to pass monthly performance checks. Anything less and you get reassigned. Grunt work. Soldier work.

 

The point is this: Bodhi Rook (ex-cargo pilot, current rebel) is smart. He has to be- he’d have died years ago if he wasn’t. He is smart- actually, too smart for the Empire, which led to him having the presence of mind to cover that intelligence up. He has never wanted notoriety or recognition or (heavens forbid) a promotion. He wants to stay alive. And then Galen Erso- a good man, Bodhi knows, but a strange and inscrutable one- gives him that datastick and tells him to run. And he is smart enough to take the opportunity that is offered to him. Smart enough to do something right, even if it might get him killed.

 

//

 

When the red dust of Jedha has faded into a million stretched out stars, and the five of them (six, with the mouthy reprogrammed droid) are on their way to Eadu, Bodhi tucks himself into a small corner, and watches. It’s observational, he tells himself. Strategic. He needs to take stock, to evaluate his position. It doesn’t help, though, that he’s still shaking and numb, halfway to a panic attack and utterly terrified of what will happen if he makes it the rest of the way. Nobody is paying attention to him, though, all off in their own private spaces. The two older ones are sitting on the floor, heads bent low, talking. They are of the Temple, now destroyed, back in NiJedha, and strangely comforting to see following its complete destruction. The woman- Galen’s daughter- is asleep, or pretending to be. The droid is piloting and the captain-

 

Is walking over to Bodhi. 

 

“Hey.” It’s a simple enough greeting, carefully neutral. Bodhi watches him for a few seconds, silent, and he seems to take that as some sort of acquiescence to company. He sits slowly, no fast movements, and Bodhi can’t tell if it’s a considerate gesture or simply a product of exhaustion. 

 

“Hi,” says Bodhi, fidgeting a little. He looks at Cassian sidelong, cataloguing key details. The rank indicator on his vest. The boots- scuffed, and carrying some of the last traces of NiJedha in the soles. The tired and guarded eyes. Overall conclusion: He is a mess. But a mess that’s trying to hold a conversation with Bodhi, which is odd.

 

“It’s going to be a long trip,” Cassian says after a moment. “You can sleep if you want.”

 

“I… don’t,” Bodhi says slowly. Softly. “I don’t want to.” 

 

“Okay,” Cassian replies. “So don’t. But I am going to. K can drive for a while.” And he just leans back his head and closes his eyes and that’s that. Bodhi can’t help the confused sound he makes. Three days ago he was an Imperial pilot; He’s not someone any smart rebel should ever consider falling asleep next to.

 

“In case you’re wondering,” says K-2 after about ten minutes, “it’s not that he trusts you. He’s trying to get a read on you. It’s strategic.” 

 

Bodhi can respect that.

 

//

 

So here’s how it is: They fought, they won, they go home, and they continue to fight. One battle- one victory- Scarif. It’s something, but it is not enough. That’s what war is, Bodhi guesses. Not the individual moments, the blaster shots and soldiers, but the sum of the parts. It’s good if you can win one battle, but ultimately it doesn’t matter unless you can do it again. And again. On and on, giving more and more of yourself to the cause until there is nothing left to give, until you are both hollow and filled with the fire of the rebellion. Bodhi looks at Cassian sidelong as he walks down the hall to their next mission briefing, noting the dark circles under his eyes and the datapad that seems to be glued to his hand whenever they’re on-base. He wonders if that’s what Cassian has done. Hollowed himself out. 

 

It doesn’t look very rewarding.

 

//

 

Cassian has downtime very rarely, but when he does, he still finds ways to work. His main hobby, currently, is getting K-2SO’s programming out of the old protocol droid they’ve loaded him onto and back into a suitable form. He claims that repairing the body of his best friend is hardly  _ work _ , per say, but Bodhi disagrees. Cassian has taken on the monumental task of, essentially, rebuilding K-2SO from the ground up, with only the blaster bolt-riddled frame of a different Imperial droid that the Rebellion has obtained. This is not an easy job, even though Cassian doesn’t have to rewrite K-2’s core code, so Bodhi takes it upon himself to help. He has a lot of experience with machines, after all.

 

It also might be an excuse to get to know Cassian better. For all that they work together and nearly died together, Cassian’s just so  _ busy _ all of the time that Bodhi feels he barely knows him. The real him- Cassian. Bodhi knows Captain Andor of the Rebel Alliance  _ very _ well; Knows how his eyes become guarded every time he is approached by a superior, wary of the assignment they’re about to give him. Knows how he always hesitates, just for half a second, before saying  _ Understood _ in a carefully neutral tone. How when he comes back from a solo mission he sits with K-2 for hours in his room, and how he won’t tell anyone else where he’s been. Bodhi  _ knows _ Captain Andor. He wants to know Cassian.

 

And he starts to. While they’re working on fixing K-2, Cassian’s eyes become unguarded. His voice is lighter, he gestures more. He rolls up his sleeves while he works and laughs at some of Bodhi’s jokes, even though most of them aren’t very funny. He smiles a lot. He’s beautiful, and Bodhi realizes that he is so fucking screwed.

 

Sometimes K-2 will wander in while they’re working on his new body, complaining loudly about the rusty joints and short stature of his current form. Bodhi doesn’t mind at all- he likes K-2 more than he expected to. He’s never met a droid with personality before. Plus, Cassian lights up when he sees him. It’s adorable, but from it Bodhi can infer that outside of Rogue One, Cassian doesn’t really have many friends. His social circle seems to consist of the ex-extremist criminal daughter of Galen Erso, two intentionally incomprehensible Temple guardians, a droid, and an Imperial defector. Then Bodhi remembers that his is roughly the same, and shuts himself up.

 

K-2 talks a lot, for a droid, and he makes Cassian more talkative too. They’re not always speaking Basic, but again, Bodhi doesn’t mind. He just likes being around Cassian, and he doesn’t ever feel particularly excluded.

 

“Hola, Kay, ¿cómo estás?”

 

“¿Cuando vas a terminar este?” K-2 asks, gesturing to the roughly droid-shaped pile of scrap metal that Bodhi is working on. “El mío es pesado, y feo, y no me gusta.”

 

“Paciencia, amigo,” Cassian replies, tightening a screw. “Es más difícil que el reprogramación.” 

 

“Hm,” K-2 says, managing to radiate disdain without having any facial expressions. Bodhi watches the conversation with amusement, not understanding the words but catching the general vibe. “Ese cuerpo es peor que mi primero. No lo quiero.”

 

Cassian splutters indignantly and Bodhi hides a smile. K-2 is the only one who is able to wind Cassian up like this- well, the only one Cassian  _ allows  _ to, anyway. “Kay. Es el _ mismo tipo  _ de-”

 

“Es más corto-”

 

“El  _ mismo _ modelo-”

 

“-sucio-”

 

“¡Estamos arreglando lo!” Cassian protests, but he’s close to laughing. Bodhi can tell by the way his eyes are crinkling in the corners. 

 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Bodhi interrupts, “But could you pass me that wrench?”

 

Cassian does laugh at that. Their fingers brush in the exchange and Bodhi is so, so gone.

 

//

 

He takes another bite of his food and makes a face. Rapidly cooling rations are predictably worse than the heated kind. He pushes the pale eggs and dry potatoes around the container for a bit, and sighs. Stands up. Dumps it in the nearest trashcan (in the back of his mind a voice that sounds like an Imperial officer snaps at him for the waste) and turns back to Cassian with his hands on his hips.

 

“Okay,” he says, because he’s feeling brave and a bit bored, “You need to stop with- with all that.”

 

Cassian looks up from his datapad. Columns of information march down the screen- upcoming assignments, requests for debriefs, maps of planets and moons that even Bodhi (an actual ex-cargo pilot) has never been to. “What?”

 

“It’s just- Your next assignment’s not for a while,” Bodhi continues. He’s trying not to lose steam, but his train of thought has a recent tendency to derail. “And- I mean- It’s 0800. You haven’t even had caf yet.” Cassian blinks at him for a couple of seconds in confusion, and Bodhi flicks his gaze away and back again. He’s being brave today. “You should take a break. Come hang out with me in the cargo bay or something- you could, I-I dunno, help with some repairs I’ve been doing on one of the X-Wings?” He hadn’t meant for it to come out like a question, but this is just how it is around Cassian; He can’t quite get his brain and his mouth to cooperate.

 

“Bodhi, I am a captain,” Cassian begins, sounding like he doesn’t know why he has to explain this. “I have certain responsibilities. I can’t just- just decide not to do what I’m supposed-” He breaks off sharply, then softens, sighs. “Stop looking at me like that.”

 

Bodhi frowns. “Like...what?”

 

“Like that.”

 

More confusion. “Like this?”

 

“Like I just kicked your pet or something!” 

 

“I don’t-”

 

“Like that!”

 

“I’m not trying to-”

 

“Forget it.” Cassian runs a hand through his hair in apparent defeat. “Regardless of your  _ face _ , the paperwork will not just  _ go away _ . So. Take it up with the council or something. But don’t hold your breath.”

 

Bodhi hesitates for a moment, and then nods once and turns on his heel. He’s been brave today, but sometimes even bravery gets you nowhere. He’s been trying this for a couple of weeks now, but he’s absolute shit at subtlety. Or maybe Cassian’s shit at picking up signals. Or maybe it’s both. 

 

//

 

Bodhi’s father died when he was a teenager. Tragic, certainly, but not uncommon on Imperial-occupied Jedha. He was recruited as an Imperial cargo pilot only a short while later.  _ Was recruited. _ An imperfect phrasing, passive voice. He prefers to think about it that way. Prefers to remember it as less forceful than it was, less coerced. It makes him feel better. It’s better than  _ I was taken _ or  _ It was that or jail _ . ‘Recruited’ is simpler.

 

When he was working for the Empire, he was allowed to send part of his small (better than nothing) salary home to Jedha, but not to visit. Nobody in the lower ranks got to go to their home planet; The risk of defection was too high. He’d been hoping to find his old neighborhood once he’d delivered the message to Saw, to perhaps see his mother again- but, well. That didn’t exactly happen. Now he guesses that she’s dead with the rest of the Holy City, if she hadn’t been already. He’s still not sure how he feels about that. 

 

The point of all of this (it’s hard for him to stay focused now) is that he can barely remember having two parents in the same room at the same time, and definitely can’t recall them ever acting the way Baze and Chirrut do. Sometimes the words they say are harsh (“You’re an old fool,” is Baze’s favorite line) but they’re both nearly always smiling, and they tend to talk more quietly than anyone else on base. It’s why Bodhi likes to sit near them when he’s feeling overwhelmed but doesn’t want to be alone. Between the two of them and Baze’s heavy repeater blaster cannon, they create an atmosphere of security. It’s strategic, he tells himself. He’s protected, and can be assured nobody will approach him without being deterred by a warning from Chirrut or a glare from Baze. He ignores the whisper of a thought at the back of his mind that says he just likes having friends for once.

 

He listens to them talk in their corner of the mess hall while he polishes his goggles, which are already spotless. Their voices come in waves- first Chirrut’s, with some sort of quip about how Baze’s hair looks like a rat’s nest today.

 

“A miracle. You didn’t tell me your blindness had been cured. The wonders of modern medicine,” Baze replies drily, and Chirrut laughs. The corners of Bodhi’s lips twitch up even though he’s pretending to be politely not listening. 

 

“I thought I would surprise you with the news,” says Chirrut, “But then I saw how handsome you are and I got nervous.”

 

Baze huffs and rolls his eyes, smiling, then frowns when Chirrut’s hand darts out and grabs the bread off his plate. “You’re a thief!” He turns to Bodhi incredulously. “My husband is a dirty thief.”

 

“Marriage is a give and take,” says Chirrut solemnly, and tears the bread in half. “Look, I’m giving.” Baze takes the offered piece with only a tiny sigh. There’s silence at the table for a moment, as the two of them eat and Bodhi keeps meticulously cleaning his goggles. Then Chirrut speaks again. “Something’s bothering our pilot.”

 

“What? No- no, nothing’s wrong,” Bodhi says, too quickly. He winces as Baze raises an unimpressed eyebrow at him. “E-even if there was I can assure you it would be fine, productivity and general behavior-wise. Nothing that would interfere with my work or- or slow me down or-”

 

“You’re upset about something,” Chirrut interrupts. “Something isn’t going the way you want.”

 

Bodhi stares. “How’d you-”

 

“I told fortunes on the street for a while, after the temple was destroyed,” says Chirrut, a slight frown flashing across his face at the memory. Baze puts one hand on his knee briefly, and the look is gone. “Pretty fun, but not a lot of money in it.”

 

“Unfortunately,” Baze mutters.

 

Bodhi shifts in his seat, suddenly curious. “So can you really-”

 

“See into the future?” Chirrut finishes the sentence for him, smiling. “No. Not usually. I don’t have  _ that _ much sensitivity. I just feel it, the Force. The way it flows around people. And then I make a guess. And I’m usually right.” The smile grows into a wide grin. “I used to mess with Baze like that all the time, when we were younger.”

 

Baze rolls his eyes again. “It wasn’t funny thirty years ago, and it’s still not funny now.”

 

“It was a little bit funny.”

 

“It wasn’t,” Baze insists, but he’s smiling too, and trying to hide it. Chirrut cocks his head for a second, then turns to Bodhi. 

 

“Tell me. Is he smiling? I think he’s smiling.”

 

“I’m not,” says Baze. “Because it’s not funny.”

 

“He’s smiling,” Bodhi confirms, and Baze mock glares at him.

 

“Traitor!” he cries, in the same voice he’d called Chirrut a thief in, which takes away any sting the accusation might have had. Bodhi laughs and ducks his head for a second.

 

“That’s the idea, yeah,” he says, and is surprised at how easy the joke slips out. He thinks for a moment that maybe it isn’t funny to the other two, but after a moment of almost shocked silence, Chirrut laughs. Bodhi’s worries fade and are replaced with pride, for some reason, at having amused him. 

 

“A traitor pilot maybe, but a comedian as well! And also, it seems,” Chirrut adds, sobering up, “Very adept at dodging questions.”

 

Bodhi sighs. “Look, I really don’t know what you’re talking about.” He very calmly and deliberately places his goggles down on the table and places his hands flat in front of him. No more fidgeting. It looks dodgy (he’s been told). “I’m completely fine.” Out of the corner of his eye he sees Cassian stand up and begin walking out of the mess hall. Bodhi flicks his eyes to him as he goes instinctively, then snaps back to Chirrut who is, luckily for Bodhi, blind. Baze, however, is not, and he swivels in his seat to follow Bodhi’s momentary line of sight.

 

“He just looked at Captain Andor,” he says, continuing his streak of refusing to use Cassian’s first name. At first Bodhi had thought it was out of respect, but the twelfth time it happened and Cassian clicked his tongue in annoyance, he understood. Baze thinks it’s funny.

 

“Now who’s the traitor?” Bodhi exclaims. “And I-I didn’t, actually.”

 

“He did,” insists Baze, then turns back to Bodhi. “How did you ever escape the Empire when you lie like  _ that? _ ”

 

“Interesting,” says Chirrut after a pause. He rubs his left wrist absently, a patch of smoother burn-scarred skin that the bacta hadn’t quite been able to wipe away, and appears to be deep in thought.

 

Baze leans closer to Bodhi from across the table. “He’s going to give you some advice.” It sounds uncomfortably like a warning.

 

“N-no, thank you, I’m fine-” Bodhi starts to say, but Chirrut cuts him off with a sudden yet contemplative hum. 

 

“Here we go,” says Baze wearily, with the air of a man who has seen the same performance many times.

 

“An opportunity is coming for you soon,” he intones, which is a very dramatic but strangely accurate word for it. He’s putting on a voice that sounds lower, more mysterious, and if Bodhi didn’t already know Chirrut, he might be intimidated. “An opportunity to achieve your goal.” A brief, well timed, tension-filled pause follows, and then Chirrut winks. “Don’t fuck it up.” He takes a big bite out of his chunk of bread and chews in silence like nothing happened. Baze’s hair has fallen over his face and his head is down, but the tiny tremors of his shoulders make Bodhi suspect he’s laughing.

 

“I’m gonna...go,” says Bodhi after a pause, putting his goggles back on his head and standing. The last thing he hears as he exists the mess hall is Chirrut’s voice.

 

“What, no tip?!”

 

//

 

“Hey,” Cassian says as he walks up two days later. Bodhi’s head snaps up from where he’s been working on repairing blaster damage to a Red Squadron ship. He curses when it bumps into the wing above him, and Cassian winces in sympathy. “Sorry.”

 

“No, no, it’s fine,” Bodhi insists, wiping his hands off with a rag. “Trust me, it’s nothing. Can’t get much more fucked up in there anyway, right?” He flashes a smile, small and brief, to let Cassian know he’s joking. Cassian frowns slightly. “What- what did you need?”

 

In response, Cassian hands him a datapad. “We’ve been given an assignment. Simple recon mission, very easy. We’re going to be checking out a couple planets near the Outer Rim.”

 

“What’s the reason?” Bodhi asks, scanning through the mission specs- estimated time duration of a couple days, allocation of a ship and blasters, orders not to willingly engage with any Imperials they might encounter.

 

“In case part of the Empire is regrouping there,” Cassian explains. “They’ve been quiet lately, and there’s enough settlements in that area that they wouldn’t have to start from scratch.”

 

One part of this mission isn’t adding up. Bodhi frowns, flicking further down the page. He’s definitely assigned to it, with Cassian as the commanding officer and no other crew but- “Why choose me, specifically? You could get any pilot or- or even a droid if you wanted-”  _ Any pilot that isn’t me. Who’s actually useful. _

 

“The only droid I would work with is Kay. And he isn’t exacting in top piloting condition,” Cassian says, which is true. “And,” continues Cassian, “I requested you.”

 

Bodhi nearly does a double-take. “What?”

 

Cassian shrugs and says, matter-of-factly, “I need someone I trust.”

 

As he walks out of the hangar, Bodhi tries to will his heart to beat calmly again.

 

//

 

When he was a child, he’d dream about the stars. About flying among them one day. Jedha was no Coruscant before the Empire came, but it had its fair share of pilgrims and travelers, merchants with their offworld wares glittering in the dust of the marketplace, like stars brought down right into Bodhi’s hands. 

 

He can still vaguely remember it- Jedha when the Old Republic was strong. He was only six or seven when the Clone Wars began, but he remembers them too. Hard days, when the troopers that patrolled the streets suddenly became terrifying, no longer willing to joke or spare a credit for a small child fascinated by their armor. He remembers when Jedha became a war zone; That was what he left behind. There was nothing there anymore, not really. The Temple, destroyed. The Guardians of the Whills scattered, begging on street corners or attacking troopers in alleyways in a valiant but futile attempt to fight back. The marketplaces smaller, no longer boasting wares from worlds that were now in ruins or open rebellion. Less stars brought to earth. It was tragic, ugly, horrible, a myriad of other adjectives. The loss of a world. The loss of a home.

 

Joining the Empire wasn’t voluntary. Bodhi hadn’t wanted it. But he couldn’t avoid it. They’d combed through Jedha every couple of months, looking for people old enough to be recruited. When he’d started looking around that age, they’d started trying to get him. That’s why there weren’t many teenagers on Jedha anymore, or on any Imperial occupied planet. They were snapped up quickly by the Empire to be trained, and Bodhi- even though he tried to delay it, even though he’d slouched and hid his face for months- was no different. They’d surrounded him while he was in the marketplace, buying groceries, a list his mother had written in his hands. A half dozen stormtroopers, all with blasters.  _ Join or die _ , they’d said, and he hadn’t wanted to die. So he’d joined. And he’d scored just right on his aptitude tests- too high for grunt work, too low for anything incredibly  _ involved _ \- to be designated a cargo pilot.  _ Just _ a cargo pilot. It hadn’t been an accident. He knew what he was doing.

 

When he looks back on it now, he is appalled by himself. He worked for the Empire for  _ years _ , years of his life that he will never get to take back, and just because he didn’t  _ like _ it doesn’t mean he didn’t do it. He did not fire a blaster for them, he did not physically kill- but he transported the troopers who did. He ferried back resources, food and clothes and supplies for the officers and scientists of the Empire. And he knew it was wrong. He knew- how could he not? He could have defected at any time. Cargo pilots were so easily lost in the depths of space. And he’s smart, has always been smart- he could have gotten away sooner. But for so long he had been willing to prioritize his own life, to try and secure his own safety. He’d had a mother back on Jedha to send credits to. He’d had things to consider- the threat of prison, the threat of death if he was caught- that stopped him from joining the rebels sooner. 

 

But he’s here now, he reminds himself. That has to count for something.

 

//

 

“So what’s the plan?” Bodhi asks as Cassian straps himself into the copilot’s seat early the next day. “I mean- where to first?”

 

“Felucia,” says Cassian, checking the itinerary. “And after that, Devaron.”

 

Bodhi raises an eyebrow. “Not exactly easy to get to.”

 

“No,” Cassian agrees, “But Felucia had Imperial activity during the Clone Wars, and Devaron was a Jedi planet. The council believes they are likely to be places the Empire would fall back to.”

 

“But- a Jedi planet? Why would they go there?”

 

Cassian sighs. Shrugs. “Spite, maybe. I don’t know. Princess Leia suggested it.” He puts the datapad away as Bodhi punches in the coordinates. “We get there, we have a look around, and if any Imperials spot us, we run.”

 

Bodhi pauses. “That’s really it?” He’s not stupid. He knows that Cassian’s missions usually have two sides, and the second one is not something Bodhi is exactly itching to participate in. But Cassian’s face is calm, his eyes unguarded. Bodhi likes to think he’s gotten pretty good at reading people, especially his friends, and right now Cassian looks as unbothered and relaxed as he would if they were just going to Dantooine and back.

 

“Yes, that’s really it,” Cassian says, and there’s a hint of amusement in his voice. “So let’s get going, yeah?”

 

It turns out that even at lightspeed, it will take about twelve hours to get to Felucia. The ship they’ve been assigned is small, but it still has a bunk room and a common area. It can be piloted by one; Both of them don’t have to stay in the cockpit for the entire trip. Still, for several hours, neither of them makes any attempt to go anywhere. The silence is nice, but eventually Bodhi starts talking. Not about anything really important, just… stuff. Something K-2 said to him that he’d found funny. The gossip that’s circulating through the other pilots in the shuttlebay.

 

Cassian listens, which is the mildly surprising thing. He doesn’t just let Bodhi ramble on; he asks questions, smiles at the funny parts. It’s strange. When they’re on-base he’s always so distracted, so busy. Stressed. The only times he’s like this are when he’s fixing up that old droid body for K-2. Weirdly, being sent on a mission into possibly Imperial-held territory seems to actually be  _ relaxing _ him. Or maybe (and it’s selfish and a little silly to be thinking this) he just likes Bodhi.

 

Eventually, his stories turn a little bit more personal. Not  _ heavy _ , per say- but he mentions Jedha, and a bakery he used to go to on the rare occasions when he had a few credits to spare. Cassian looks thoughtful for a moment as Bodhi pauses, finished with his story, and then speaks.

 

“I was born on Fest,” he says. “Beautiful planet, although I don’t think I’ll get to prove it to you any time soon.” He takes a breath and Bodhi watches him. He seems like he’s remembering things he hasn’t thought about in a long time. “The architecture, the art- ha. You never appreciate that stuff when you’re a child, you know?”

 

“Yeah,” says Bodhi quietly. The Temple of NiJedha flashes in his mind, shining and enormous and beautiful. Gone now. “Yeah, I know.”

 

“I remember the food best, though,” Cassian continues. The streaking stars outside the ship cast strange shadows on his face. He looks beautiful, Bodhi thinks. Like a painting. Like someone who cannot possibly be real. “When I can, I cook. You should taste some of what I make- I’m not big on bragging, but my chilaquiles? They’re good,” he says, turning to look at Bodhi. “They serve a lot of different planet cuisines at the base, but it’s not the same.”

 

He’s right, of course. Bodhi listens to Chirrut and Baze complain about it all the time. Nothing is spiced right, everything is overcooked. He himself has gone so long without real Jedhan food that it doesn’t register with him as sharply, but he does miss the taste of home.

 

“Tell me more about it,” he says without really knowing why. “Your planet.”

 

Cassian presses his lips tight together for a moment, looking pained, and shakes his head. “It fell to war when I was very young. Most of my memories are of its destruction. When I was a kid I told myself that… That I’d never go back, not until we’d won. So I haven’t. It’s fallen to the Empire anyways, so I’m not sure I even could. All I have left is pieces of the culture, and the language.” He seems to shake himself out of whatever mood he’s sinking into, and smiles ruefully at Bodhi. “Sorry.”

 

“No, don’t- don’t apologize. I understand.” They sit in silence for a few minutes, watching the stars fly by. And then Bodhi decides to be brave again. “Could you- Teach me, then?”

 

Cassian looks confused. “Teach you what?”

 

“The- what you said. The language, the culture.” Bodhi chews on his bottom lip nervously. He’s not sure where the boundaries are in a conversation like this; He might be overstepping.

 

“Why?” It’s a simple question, asked blankly, like Cassian truly can’t fathom why Bodhi would want this.

 

“Um. Well. I was just thinking that- I mean,” Bodhi stammers, then starts over. “NiJedha is destroyed. My home- it’s gone. I can never go back. But Chirrut and Baze, they’re from Jedha, too. So we can talk about it, keep it alive, keep it with us.” He looks sidelong at Cassian, who is watching impassively, face betraying nothing. “You haven’t mentioned if there’s anyone else from Fest on-base. If- if you could talk about it, teach it to me- it might help? I don’t know. Sorry.” He looks back out at the stars, face burning.

 

Cassian is quiet for just long enough that Bodhi is starting to get really worried, and then he lets out a breath. “Actually, that is- That might be okay. K-2’s programmed with some language knowledge, but he doesn’t really know anything substantial.” Bodhi looks back at him and sees that he’s smiling, small but bright. “¿Y quieres aprender español? En serio?” He actually laughs a little at Bodhi’s blank look. “Okay. We’re gonna work on that.”

 

//

 

By the time they reach Felucia, Bodhi has slept for a few hours, had some lackluster rations, and learned about a dozen phrases in Spanish. Cassian seems pleased with his progress, even though he stumbles sometimes on the pronunciation of certain letters, which Cassian chalks up to his preexisting accent in Basic.

 

“The R is a problem for you I think,” he explains. “It’s not as- as  _ sharp _ as in Basic, yeah? It’s more… I don’t know. Round.”

 

“Okay,” says Bodhi, and privately thinks that he’s probably never going to be able to speak the way Cassian does- a smooth flow of words, rapid but not jumbled. Consonants fading out where Bodhi does not expect them to, blending into something different. He checks their position again, noting that they’re within range of their destination. “Coming out of hyperspace now,” he warns, and Cassian nods. They fall out of lightspeed within view of a small planet with several moons, covered in large swathes of green. Felucia, Bodhi supposes. He runs a quick scan on the censors as Cassian stands and exits the cockpit. “No detectable satellites,” Bodhi calls back to him. “And no outgoing transmissions.”

 

“Acknowledged,” says Cassian, coming back in with two packs and his jacket. “Begin descent.” He pulls the coat on. “If you see anything suspicious, be prepared to retreat. Our orders are not to engage.”

 

“Got it,” Bodhi confirms, and starts bringing them down onto the planet’s surface. It’s covered in dense jungle foliage, he realizes. Enormous deep green trees and looping vines which get even huger as they approach. He carefully lowers the ship into a small clearing and does another scan. Still no outgoing transmissions. He turns off the power and they both listen for a minute. There are no troopers mobilizing outside, no blaster fire. If there are any Imperials on this planet, they haven’t noticed that they have company. 

 

“Okay,” says Cassian, slinging his bag over his shoulder. He smiles as he says, “Vamos.” It’s a test, and Bodhi smiles back to let him know he understands.

 

The air, once they step outside, is warmer than Bodhi (and Cassian, in his fur-lined coat) expected. The leaf litter beneath their feet is soft, and smells of age. It is perfectly silent except for the slight rustling of the trees in the wind. 

 

“No animal life,” Cassian explains. “Just vegetation.” He turns on the spot for a few seconds, considering. “We’ll hike around for a bit, see if we can find any signs of Imperial activity. If not, we’ll try a different spot, and then go.”

 

“Okay,” Bodhi says easily. It’s a beautiful planet, he thinks as he follows Cassian into the jungle. They walk for about forty minutes in complete quiet. The silence is so strange- it’s as quiet as the Jedha desert but infinitely more vibrant and alive. Flowers bloom in colors so bright it almost hurts his eyes, and moisture hangs heavily in the air. It’s incredible- a planet clearly more than capable of supporting animal life, yet only plants have evolved. That’s the beauty of an infinite universe, he reflects. Infinite possibilities. Jedha, a planet of sand and kyber. Eadu, stone and rain. Scarif, beaches and blaster fire. 

 

His breath catches in his throat and he stops, flinching involuntarily as a memory flashes in front of his eyes. He’s plugging the commlink into the communications bay on the ship, the air around him still humid but filled with smoke and sand particles. He patches through- speaks to the Admiral, a million miles above him- and that’s when the grenade bounces off the wall of the ship and rolls to a stop at his feet. It’s beeping and he- and he-

 

“Bodhi?”

 

He’s on Felucia, with Cassian, looking for Imperials. Scarif was months ago. He is alive. He breathes in deep, filling his lungs with air that does not taste of smoke. “Yeah, sorry, got distracted.” If his voice is a little wobbly, Cassian doesn’t notice (or pretends he doesn’t). Bodhi breaks into a jog to catch up with him, then slows as they walk side by side. The space behind his right ear prickles, and he rubs it absently, fingers trailing across a raised scar.

 

He doesn’t realize Cassian is watching him until he hears him say, “What is that?” pointedly, looking at the spot Bodhi’s hand is covering.

 

“Oh it’s- it’s nothing. Just. A scar. Nothing,” Bodhi replies quickly, and lowers his hand, trying to play it off as not a big deal. He can feel Cassian still watching him and realizes that they’ve both stopped walking, stock still in the middle of the jungle. 

 

“From what?” asks Cassian, and his voice is soft but his eyes are different- more concerned, maybe, but Bodhi can never quite tell with Cassian. 

 

“Shrapnel,” says Bodhi. “From when I- From Scarif.” 

 

Cassian frowns. “It’s so… close to your neck. I didn’t realize you got hit there.”

 

Bodhi shifts his weight uneasily, takes his goggles off his head so he can have something to hold. “Yeah it was, uh, it was a close call. Complete luck that it didn’t catch the jugular.” He doesn’t look up at Cassian, instead studying the leafy ground through the lenses of his goggles. He attempts a casual laugh, a small smile. “I mean, wouldn’t have been  _ so _ bad if it had, right?”

 

“What- no-  _ Bodhi _ ,” says Cassian, and Bodhi looks up to see that his friend’s face has completely shifted from neutrality to open concern. “Don’t say that about yourself- you’re not-,” He cuts himself off with a frustrated noise and runs a hand through his hair. “Bodhi, listen. If you had died, on Scarif- I wouldn’t-  _ we _ wouldn’t have survived. You got us out. Don’t say it would be better if you had died. Please. It would have been so much worse.”

 

Bodhi is already shaking his head before Cassian has finished. “Cassian, I’m not-”

 

“It just bothers me when you act like you’re- you’re dispensable,” Cassian interrupts. “Don’t you understand, Bodhi? You are  _ literally _ the most important one of us.” He grabs one of Bodhi’s hands from where it’s gripping the hard plastic of his goggles, forcing him to relax his hold. “Please, Bodhi, listen to me for- for two seconds, okay?” Bodhi looks at him, trying to focus on the words coming out of Cassian’s mouth and not on the warmth of his hand, the callouses on his palm. “If you had not delivered the plans to Saw, the Rebellion would have been over. If you had not escaped Jedha with us, we would not have gotten to Eadu, or onto Scarif. One of the soldiers who survived- in his report, he described how brave you were. You went out alone, without a blaster. You connected to the fleet. You-,” He stops, practically laughing in disbelief that Bodhi doesn’t yet understand. “For fuck’s sake, Bodhi, you had a frag grenade thrown into your ship and  _ you threw it right back _ .” Cassian pauses for a moment, and then says, almost too quietly to hear: “You’re incredible.”

 

Bodhi is pretty sure he actually  _ did _ die at some point and just didn’t notice, or else stumbled into some sort of alternate universe, because this? This cannot be happening right now. Cassian Andor-  _ hero of the Rebellion _ \- calling him, Bodhi Rook, ex-Imperial cargo pilot, incredible? Is he even totally sure he’s awake? Before he’s aware of what he’s doing, he steps backwards, his hand sliding out of Cassian’s. Despite the temperature of the air, he feels colder without the contact. Cassian lets him go without protest, eyes unreadable.

 

“Thank you for- for saying all of that,” Bodhi tells him, heart too big for his chest. “But no matter what you’ve seen me do, I’m still just a cargo pilot. I-I’m not a hero like you said. I’m just someone who wants to stay alive. I don’t think that’s bravery.” He slips his goggles back onto his head and hitches his bag further up his back. “There’s nothing around here. We should go back to the ship and try someplace else.” It’s a bit mutinous of him, and if he tried to do this in the Empire they’d probably shoot him on the spot, but he starts walking before Cassian agrees. In the silence of the jungle he hears a quiet sigh behind him before a second pair of footsteps joins his own, staying well behind him for the whole way back.

 

//

 

_ He’s plugging the commlink into the communications bay on the ship, the air around him still humid but filled with smoke and sand particles. He patches through- speaks to the Admiral, a million miles above him- and that’s when the grenade bounces off the wall of the ship and rolls to a stop at his feet. It’s beeping and he doesn’t hesitate- regardless of if he dies, if this ship goes down then the rest of the squadron will be trapped on Scarif for the Empire to shoot like fish in a barrel. He scoops up the grenade in his hand and tosses it with everything he has, hurtling back out towards the troopers. It explodes in midair, shards of metal flying outwards in a fiery explosion. He is thrown backwards like a ragdoll, slamming into the far wall of the ship. When he comes back to himself, he’s aware of something dripping down his neck, of the way his ribs feel almost crunchy when he breathes. The world won’t stop spinning and the ship smells smoky.  _

 

_ He can faintly hear Admiral Raddus’ voice over the blaster fire and the ringing in his ears.  _

 

_ “Rogue One, may the Force be with you.” _

 

_ “I’m not dead,” he coughs, and there’s something wet and coppery in his throat but he pushes past it. “I’m not dead. Get that shield gate down. Please.” He doesn’t even know if Raddus heard him, but there’s nothing to be done. He yanks the cable out of its socket, cutting off the connection, and scrambles up into the cockpit, aware that every movement may be costing him minutes of life. He fumbles through the boot-up sequence, ignoring how his fingers leave red stains on the screens and buttons in front of him. Outside, he hears shouts as the surviving rebels realize that he’s finished- the Fleet knows that they’re here, and now they need to fall back. There’s the sound of regulation boots rushing onboard, a few more blaster bolts, and then someone yells, “GO!”, so he hits the ignition.  _

 

_ They find Chirrut and Baze further down the beach, side by side, both barely breathing. Later, Baze will explain how Chirrut pulled the switch and was caught in a blast, how Baze shielded him from a second one and they both waited to die together, but for right now Bodhi just curses and prays and waits for the other soldiers to bring the couple on board. Then he takes off again, his flying less steady as his hands start to shake- from anxiety or blood loss, he’s not sure. In the back of his head, he tells himself that he is not going to survive this. Even if the force field opens, he is going to die. And that’s fine- as long as everyone else gets to live. _

 

_ The gate comes down. The satellite dish shifts. The plans are presumably transmitted. Bodhi maneuvers the ship to the base of the comms tower, black creeping around the edges of his vision. He sees Jyn stumble out, supporting Cassian, who may or may not be conscious.  _

 

_ Bodhi doesn’t allow himself to close his eyes until the hyperdrive calculations have been made. He thinks that it’s rather fitting for his last sight to be the stars, stretching out into infinity in front of him. _

 

//

 

They spend the rest of the Felucian day searching different parts of the planet, jumping between continents and skimming across the warm, small oceans. There’s a strange tension between them now. Not animosity- at least Bodhi doesn’t think it is. Just an awkwardness, a wall neither of them knows how to get past. They speak occasionally, but only when they have to. Mostly, they are as silent as the planet itself.

 

They don’t find much. A few patches of the forest are scarred, still burnt and recovering from the Clone Wars. In these places there is a weight in the air, a heaviness that speaks of great death and suffering. Bodhi is no Jedi, but he’d have to have the Force sensitivity of a rock not to feel the sadness here. Other than that- nothing. No Imperial activity. Bodhi sighs as they settle back in from their last trip as Felucia’s sun sets and its moons begin to rise. 

 

“It’s going to take even longer to get to Devaron than it did to get out here,” he says, punching in new coordinates. 

 

“Mhm,” hums Cassian, tapping something into his datapad.

 

“...You can go sleep, if you want,” Bodhi tells him. It’s not that he wants to be alone, he just doesn’t want Cassian to feel like he has to stay here if he doesn’t want to. But Cassian just shrugs and smiles at him.

 

“Nah. I’m good.”

 

“Okay,” says Bodhi, and activates the hyperdrive. 

 

After about an hour, Cassian takes a deep breath. “Hey. Remember this?.”

 

“What?” Bodhi looks up from the readout he’s been monitoring.

 

Cassian shows him the screen of his datapad. The note taking app is open and he’s written  _ Lo siento _ across the screen in sharp handwriting. Bodhi recognizes it as a phrase Cassian had taught him earlier in the trip, before they got to Felucia. He wonders why it’s being written instead of spoken but, well- he’s not the best with words either. Maybe this is easier, somehow. Less serious, less direct. Doesn’t mean it’s not sincere, it just means that Cassian’s trying to protect himself.

 

“You’re sorry?” he says, and Cassian nods. “You- you don’t have to say that, Cassian. It’s honestly fine. I’m just, you know- It’s hard for me to see myself the way that you seem to. I’m not  _ offended _ , but I just. Nobody’s ever said something like that about me before.” He sighs, leans back in his chair. “Back on Scarif… I wasn’t trying to rescue everyone because of something- something bigger than myself or out of nobility or whatever. I wasn’t thinking about the Rebellion, or the plans, or the Empire. I just wanted to keep you alive. Keep  _ all _ of you alive.” He twists his hands together absently, eyes staring past the swirl of stars into his own memories. “I thought I was a dead man. But I had a… debt, I guess, to you. And the others. You rescued me from Jedha. I didn’t want to leave you on Scarif alone, not if I could help it. And I was scared. I was so completely terrified, Cassian.”

 

“Doesn’t mean you’re not a hero,” is the quiet reply.

 

“Not in the way you are,” Bodhi insists, looking at Cassian. “You’re never scared.”

 

“I am right now,” says Cassian, and he reaches over, slow enough that Bodhi could react if he wanted to, and takes hold of one of his hands. Interlaces their fingers. Looks at Bodhi, waiting for his reaction.

 

Oh. Okay. “Um,” says Bodhi, and remembers that he’s being brave today. “Yeah. Alright then.” To his eternal shame, his voice cracks a little bit under the weight of nervousness and surprise.

 

Cassian laughs, and it’s beautiful. Bodhi must blush or look embarrassed because he relents suddenly, giving his hand a quick squeeze. “You don’t have to look so spooked.”

 

“I’m not the one who was scared to hold my hand,” says Bodhi, which sets Cassian off again, and suddenly they’re both  _ giggling _ , holding hands in hyperspace and just absolutely losing it, the tension Bodhi had felt earlier sloughing away like mud in rain. Their hands stay clasped throughout it all, fingers wound together. Eventually they calm down and get quiet again, but Cassian doesn’t take his hand back. So Bodhi doesn’t either. 

 

“Listen,” Cassian says, amusement still in his voice. It’s tinged with a hint of nerves, though, which Bodhi tries to dispel with a look and what he hopes is an encouraging smile. “When we get back, I was thinking-”

 

“Come to dinner with me,” Bodhi interrupts. “Just us. I can pull something edible together, we could- I don’t know, find some place quiet to sit. Could be nice.” He bites his lip, nervous, and doesn’t miss how Cassian’s eyes drop for a second. “To- to be clear- I really like you and, well. Yeah.”

 

“I really like you too,” says Cassian. He smiling again, shyly, and his eyes are still a bit nervous, a bit disbelieving. Bodhi’s heart soars. It’s heartening to know he’s not the only one who’s a little bit off center. “I’d love to- to go to dinner, when we get back.”

 

“Alright,” Bodhi replies, trying to act like his chest isn’t pounding. “It’s a date.”

 

//

 

They come out of hyperspace further away from Devaron than Bodhi intended. His calculations must have been slightly off- not disastrously, as they haven’t phased through a planet or the heart of a star- but they’re a few clicks from where they’re supposed to be. This is either a stroke of luck or the work of the Force, because as soon as they make their slow, sublight way within range (but not sight) of the planet, Bodhi’s scanner picks up a signal.

 

“Shit,” he hisses, checking the screen. “Yeah, we got activity on an Imperial frequency. They’re down there.”

 

“Can they detect us from out here?” Cassian asks. His voice is tight, and his body is tense. With good reason, Bodhi thinks. They’re not supposed to engage on this mission; The ship they’re in has one defensive turret and there’s only two small blasters onboard.

 

“Uh,” says Bodhi, “Probably not? They’re not actively looking for us the way we are for them, so unless we crash land onto the planet, they won’t know we’re here.” He pauses, thinking back. “Well, I should say they’re not  _ physically _ looking for us. They’re probably monitoring any rebel channels they have access to, just in case. It’s, um. Protocol.”

 

“So no sending transmissions until we are clear of them. Got it. Can we intercept anything?” Cassian seems a little less worried now, leaning over Bodhi’s shoulder to look at the data on the screen. His hand rests absently on Bodhi’s back, and their faces are suddenly very close together. Bodhi tries to focus on the screen.

 

“Uh, I’m not sure. The frequencies they’re using- they’re coded. I-I mean I  _ might _ know the code,  _ maybe _ , if they haven’t changed them since I defected but, um. No guarantees.” He feels rather than sees Cassian’s nod, and suddenly the hand on his back is gone. 

 

“I believe in you,” is all Cassian says before exiting the cockpit and moving further into the ship to the common area. 

 

The code, as it turns out, is one Bodhi knows, and it’s not incredibly complicated. He decodes it manually, double checking his work in a way he didn’t have to when he was still working for the Empire and it was all fresh in his mind. It doesn’t help that somewhere on the ship, Cassian is humming to himself. Bodhi doesn’t know the tune, but Cassian has good pitch, and it’s nice to listen to, if incredibly distracting. He doesn’t want it to stop. 

 

“Here,” he says when he’s done, setting the decoded message down on the table in front of Cassian. “They’re a couple dozen squadrons communicating with higher commanders. Stationed on Devaron as emergency reserves.” Cassian begins to look over Bodhi’s small, cramped handwriting, and Bodhi points to key lines to clarify them. “That’s troop numbers- only around three hundred, minus the officers. Requests for resource acquisition- that means they need shit stolen for them. They’re relying on supplies from somewhere else.” He goes further down the list. “They’ve also reported several technical difficulties with their more advanced equipment and are requesting replacements.”

 

Cassian looks at him, clearly impressed. “You got all of this from a few intercepted transmissions?” 

 

“If I didn’t know Imperial codes, they wouldn’t have kept me on as long as they did,” Bodhi says, shrugging vaguely. Being proficient in understanding Imperial military codes is not something he is proud of. It’s too reflective of his past. Still, it is an admittedly useful skill- one that the council had requested he share after he formally joined the Rebellion. He’d given them all the information he knew, but he hadn’t been expecting it to come in use.

 

“You constantly amaze me,” says Cassian, shaking his head with a smile as he reviews the decoded messages again. “This is  _ very _ good.”

 

Bodhi ducks his head to hide the smile that’s spreading across his own face, and excuses himself back to the cockpit. 

 

//

 

He doesn’t know when he fell in love with Cassian. It happened so slowly that he didn’t even realize when it cemented itself into something so tangible, so influential in his life.

 

Maybe it was when he first woke up in medbay after Scarif, nearly two weeks after the battle. He’d hurt all over, even though most of him seemed to be pretty much healed, and he later learned that the doctors simply hadn’t had enough bacta or medical supplies to restore all of him immediately. He’d looked to his right and saw Cassian sitting in a chair, one arm and leg in casts but nothing near the level of damage Bodhi had suffered. Bodhi had coughed, the action sending sharp pains through his throat and chest, and Cassian had instantly been by his side, his unbroken hand smoothing through Bodhi’s considerably shortened hair and calling loudly for a medical droid. 

 

Maybe it was before that. Maybe it happened as they approached Scarif, when Cassian had said,  _ Make ten men feel like a hundred _ , and Bodhi was filled with the certainty that he would, because Cassian was the one asking him to. Even though he was afraid and sure he was about to die, he’d do it.

 

It could have been anything. Any moment in between when they met and where they are now could have been the moment that Bodhi well and truly fell. He doesn’t know. He might never know. But he does remember something- something huge and small at the same time, an indicator of where having Cassian Andor in his life would lead. When he was crouched in Saw Gererra’s jail cell, hair sticking to his forehead with sweat and his eyes playing tricks on him, and he heard a soft voice say,  _ Are you the pilot? _ , Bodhi had looked up and something within had said  _ You are important _ . Something inside him had whispered,  _ We are connected _ . Chirrut would probably say it had been the Force. Bodhi thinks it was a product of the delirium, but whatever it was, it was right. It’s like he and Cassian are connected by a thread, that spins and stretches throughout the universe, leading them here, floating in empty space above an Imperial planet. 

 

Funny how things work out sometimes.

 

//

 

“So Devaron is occupied. And there was nothing on Felucia?” Mon Mothma asks. She seems unconvinced, for some reason. Cassian shakes his head.

 

“Nothing, ma’am.” 

 

“Hm. It seems the princess’ hunch was… correct.” She quirks one eyebrow, then stands. Cassian follows suit, and Bodhi lags a half beat behind, still unaccustomed to the rebellion’s debriefing etiquette. “You’ve both done good work. The Rebellion thanks you.”

 

Bodhi isn’t used to being thanked by his superiors. It’s still jarring to hear, even though it’s happened a few times by this point. He and Cassian both salute and exit the debrief room, back to the noise and motion of the base.

 

“I never know what to say for those things,” Bodhi complains as they walk down the crowded hallway. “I always feel so awkward.”

 

“You did fine,” says Cassian reassuringly, patting him on the shoulder. His hand rests there for a beat longer than necessary. “Hey, listen. Are you hungry?”

 

Bodhi’s heart speeds up and he nods, trying to play it cool. “Yeah. Yeah, I could eat. Got anything in mind?” 

**Author's Note:**

> i havent published a fic in a year and a half but this one is finished anyway so i thought id put it out there and please let me know what you think? i am understandably apprehensive abt putting 10 month old writing out here but i dont want it rotting in my gdocs anymore and im too lazy to do a thorough editing 
> 
> translations for the spanish bit:
> 
> \- Hey Kay, how are you?
> 
> \- When are you going to finish this? Mine's heavy, and ugly, and I don't like it.
> 
> \- Be patient, friend, it's more difficult than the reprogramming. 
> 
> \- Hm. This body's worse than my first one. I don't like it.
> 
> \- Kay. It's the same type of-
> 
> \- It's shorter-
> 
> \- The same model-
> 
> \- Dirty-
> 
> \- We're fixing it!


End file.
